


Stars and Stripes

by ACometAppears



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: /shrug, Bucky's prosthesis, Gen, Group Therapy, I've introduced Carol Danvers here even though she's not in mcu, M/M, PTSD, Rehabilitation, Therapy, she's awesome anyway
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-07
Updated: 2014-06-07
Packaged: 2018-02-03 19:50:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1755597
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ACometAppears/pseuds/ACometAppears
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky attends Sam's group therapy sessions for veterans.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stars and Stripes

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this in bullet-point form as a tumblr post, and a couple of people suggested I write it as a full-length fic. It's quite short (3.8k) and it's by no means a full exploration of Bucky's recovery, but it's part of it, at least. Enjoy!!

It feels a little like a crash landing, to go from being a mindless, ruthless assassin, to being human again - with feelings, and thoughts, and guilt. It’s almost too much to deal with.

Bucky finds his way back to Steve eventually, a few months after Project Insight tanked: he turns up at the Avengers tower one evening, sopping wet from the rain; he scares the receptionist half to death. He clutches his left arm self-consciously to his side, and asks her, “Is Steve Rogers here?”

Steve thanks his lucky stars that Bucky wasn’t ejected from the building.

Now, a few months later, after a long period of recovery, Bucky’s doing better – but he’s not recovered, by any stretch of the imagination.

He thinks that one of the reasons for it is that he’s gone from being a fully weaponised, lethal force of nature, to just being a _man_ – and a man dependent on his best friend, too. The change is jarring, making him feel useless. He has so many things he’s spoken to Steve about – so many issues, that Steve has done his very best to help him deal with.

But there’s only so much he can tell Steve, without feeling like a burden: the more problems he offloads onto him, the guiltier he feels. He realised, somewhere along the line, that he loved Steve – and not as a surrogate brother, or a friend, like he thought he did before – and to wear him down like this … It’s not fair on him. All Steve ever wants to do is good; Bucky feels like this bottomless pit of issues and problems and bullshit, in the face of that. He doesn’t want to waste any of Steve’s time – no matter how often Steve kisses him lightly, or soothes a hand through his hair, or strokes his knuckles, and says something like, _you’re always worth my time, Buck. Every minute of it._

He doesn’t associate with the other Avengers that much. He’s seen a little of all of them, but he’s only really spoken to Nat, and her archer friend – and Sam.

They were all a little cautious of him, which was to be expected, after what he’s done. But Sam, in particular – once he’d had a nod of approval from Steve – had treated him particularly well, all things considered. Bucky remembers trying to throw him off a helicarrier after ripping one of the wings from his wing-pack off, after all.

But Sam doesn’t bear grudges. And he doesn’t find it weird when Bucky has what Steve refers to as his _moments_ – he’ll start to breathe unevenly, or get this thousand-yard stare, or stand up suddenly, when he hears a particular word, or phrase, or discussion. Sam takes it all in his stride: on the rare occasion that Steve wasn’t there during one of his episodes, Sam even talked Bucky around. 

That one time, he coached Bucky through his breathing; reminded him that he was safe, without making him feel useless, or like a child. He’s even better at it than Steve is, Bucky’s surprised to find – although he doesn’t bury his head in Sam’s chest and wrap his arms tight around him, like he would with Steve in the same situation.

Later, he brings up the fact that Sam had to talk him around to Steve. Steve tells him, “He’s had a lot of practise with vets. He runs group therapy sessions for ex-military personnel,”

Bucky nods, taking it in, and considering what that must be like: all those servicemen and women, sharing their issues … If anyone would be likely to understand the _crash-landing_ back into regular life that he’s currently experiencing, it’s them. Well … Maybe not completely. The rest of them don’t live with the Avengers; don’t help them, on occasion, when they feel up to it.

“… Would you ever want to … ?” Steve asks, trailing off. Bucky looks up at him; it’s like Steve read his mind. He licks his lips, feeling apprehensive.  
“Would they have me?” He asks Steve.  
“Of course they would – why wouldn’t they?” Steve asks, frowning – he genuinely doesn’t know why Bucky wouldn’t be welcome there. Bucky smirks slightly, but it comes out as a grimace.

“I’ve killed servicemen, Steve,” He says. “I … Shouldn’t intrude,” He adds, tilting his head down.  
“They’ve killed too, Bucky. It’s part of war – it’s an ugly part, and I wish you could’ve been spared that-” Steve reaches for Bucky’s face, tilting his chin gently upwards to look at him. “But don’t think you’re any different from any of those other men and women. You deserve help,”

Bucky wants to respond; he wants to tell Steve that those men and women probably felt guilt after their kills; probably showed mercy, and morality. He knows he didn’t – _couldn’t_.

“I couldn’t be truthful with them,” He points out. “Not completely. They’d want me dead,” _And with good reason_ , he thinks, thought he doesn’t say it – he doesn’t want to worry Steve, or upset him.  
“You just share what you can, at a group like that,” Steve says, “I’ve sat in on a few of the meetings. I’ve even spoken a few times,” He admits.

Bucky eyes him thoughtfully – he hadn’t known that. Steve smiles softly, trying to set him at ease, as he says: “You want me to talk to Sam about it?”

After a long pause, Bucky nods once.

-

Even convincing himself to go to the first session is tough.

Sam travels with Bucky from the Avengers tower to the community centre he’s relocated to, since he left DC to live with the other Avengers. He made sure he handed over all his groups to other counsellors – and good ones, at that – before he left. Now, he’s got a new crop of veterans – including Bucky, this time.

“You don’t have to speak right away,” Sam tells him. Bucky doesn’t look at him, but nods. “You sure you’re ready?”  
“I need to do this,” Bucky tells him. It’s not an answer, but it lets Sam know that he wants to recover more than anything. And wanting it – truly _wanting_ it – is half the battle.

So Bucky sits to Sam’s right, watching the other veterans arrive one by one: there’s a mix of ages, races, and genders – things have moved on since he was in the army (but not since he was a soldier, as that was only a few months ago). They’ve changed for the better, though.

A few of them give him cursory glances, and quick smiles, when they see him: Sam doesn’t draw attention to him, or force him to introduce himself, which is good - because he’s not sure, yet, what he’d say.

He listens to three people speak about their experiences in Iraq, and Afghanistan. He’s not entirely sure he hasn’t been to either of those countries; wasn’t involved in either of those two conflicts. He feels the weight of his guilt redouble, though, as he realises that if he was there, he might be responsible for killing these veterans’ friends.

That thought, alone, makes him not want to come back to the group. But Sam persuades him.

Over the next two or three meetings, he doesn’t say anything – but he notices something strange; something good. He notices that the veterans don’t really react to or stare at his metal arm: no matter if it’s just his left hand showing, or his full arm, they don’t ogle it like regular citizens do.

He realises why that is, when he considers it properly: they’ve probably all had stints in veterans’ hospitals, in their time. Several of them suffered bullet wounds, or shrapnel wounds, resulting in scars – he’s even noticed a couple who’ve had amputations, like he has.

A prosthesis isn’t anything strange in a group of veterans. And they don’t treat it as strange, either. Sure, his is a little more high-tech than the standard-issue limbs usually given to veterans – but they don’t question it. It’s not their place to ask, if he doesn’t want to speak.

It’s after that realisation that he becomes more comfortable in the group. However, he hasn’t spoken, yet – and it’s been a couple of months, now. He knows Sam doesn’t want to put pressure on him to do anything he’s uncomfortable with – but he does say,  
“It’s a safe room, you know – I won’t tell Steve anything you say,”  
“I know you won’t,” Bucky replies, and sighs. “I don’t know where to start,” He admits.  
“Start at the beginning,” Sam suggests.  
“And then?”

Sam shrugs. “Start with whatever’s easiest. Work up to sharing the harder stuff – I’ve seen that work with a few of my guys before,” He says.

Bucky nods, his expression thoughtful. _Whatever’s easiest …_ It’s all pretty damn hard to put into words, or even think about.

But by the time the next meeting comes around, he has a vague idea of what he’ll say. He’s finally going to speak – for Sam, and for Steve, yeah – but also for himself. He knows he can’t keep bottling this crap up. He’s afraid he’ll relapse, back into the monster he was before; become a ghost in the machine, again - just a shade of who he was, trapped in a lethal weapon shaped like his body.

And he doesn’t want to go back to that. So he speaks up, when it’s his turn.

“… I’m Sergeant James Barnes – uh … People call me Bucky,”

There’s a customary round of greetings from the group, before they all fall silent once more. There are many eyes on him, at that moment; he feels the weight of them, even though he knows this is a judgement-free zone (as Steve and Sam have assured him, multiple times).

_Just think about when it’s over, and you can tell Steve you spoke, today. You can tell him you’re on the road to recovery, finally. You can tell him you’re coming home._

“I was in the 107th, and – well, let’s just say I’m glad I’m right-handed,” He says, an edge of dark humour in his voice. Instead of the stunned, uneasy silence he’s expecting after that comment, he actually receives a few light chuckles from the other vets, surprisingly enough. It encourages him to go on. “… I lost my arm, in the line of duty – everything just below the shoulder. I got this,” He waves vaguely at his prosthetic with his right hand. “It made everything easier – but sometimes it feels like I’m part machine,”

A few of the veterans nod, at that - clearly, he didn’t sound as stupid as he thought he did.

He blinks, taking their agreement in: he hadn’t thought any of them would feel the same way. But he supposes they were all trained, like he was – not brainwashed and tortured, exactly – but trained to kill, nonetheless.

“Its hard to separate yourself from your training, sometimes,” He says. He licks his lips, before continuing: “It’s hard to tell where you end, and where your training begins … Hard to remember who you are,” His voice trails off, becoming quieter towards the end. 

Another moment of silence falls upon the group – Sam leans over to him, and mutters, “It’s okay, man – take your time,”

Bucky nods, thankful for the pause.

“… This thing doesn’t help with that,” He says, shifting his metal arm again; the corresponding clicks and whirrs it gives off draw a few of the veterans’ eyes to it, but not for long. “Neither do people’s reactions to it … People in shops, and kids on the subway – hell, even my, uh – my partner finds it kinda cold,” He smiles at that, despite the grim nature of his words: the memory of Steve jumping a mile when his metal arm accidentally brushed him in the middle of the night is amusing to Bucky.

He chooses his words carefully, though. He knows it wasn’t okay to be gay in the military til really recently, from his research – and he wouldn’t want to out Steve by accident with a careless word. No: Steve’s planning on coming out on his own terms, soon enough. Bucky wouldn’t want to ruin that, for anything.

“… But it’s getting easier to ignore. I guess that just goes to show that I’m getting somewhere, huh,” He finishes, sitting back slightly.

Sam seamlessly picks up on the fact he’s finished speaking: “Thanks, Bucky. Good to hear from you, man,” A few heads around the circle nod – and the group moves on.

When the session is over, and it’s time to leave, Bucky notices that he gets a few smiles from some of the other veterans – an older man, a younger woman, a man with a prosthetic leg – and he makes the effort to smile back. They might not know him, outside of this room – but they certainly know something pretty personal about him inside it.

“Good job today,” Sam says, clapping him on the back, as they stack the chairs, putting them away before they leave.  
“Thanks,” Bucky says, not sure what else to say.

When he gets back to the Avengers tower, and lets Steve know that he spoke today, it has the desired effect: Steve beams at him, that thousand-watt smile that only he can pull off, and kisses him like it’s going out of fashion. Bucky smiles against Steve’s skin, feeling for once like he’s making progress.

He ignores the way Steve gets goosebumps, when he brushes his metal limb against his skin.

-

The next week, Bucky decides not to share again: he wants to take a little more time, before broaching the subject of what’s going on in his head, rather than just what’s going on with his arm. Despite being a huge part of his life, his arm feels like a strangely superficial topic: his mental state is a lot more complicated, and he knows he’ll have to think carefully before sharing his thoughts – if he can, indeed, bring himself to share them at all.

But at the end of the session, for the first time, he’s approached by one of his fellow veterans, as he’s helping Sam stack the chairs. He’s carrying five stacked chairs in his left arm when she approaches:  
“Sergeant Barnes, right?” She asks him, a little hesitantly. He frowns, and turns around, wanting to see who he’s being addressed by. She’s young, and blonde, with an athletic build - but she has the look he’s seen in the eyes of pretty much everyone who attends the group. The prematurely old, slightly haunted look.

He sets the chairs down, and nods once, not sure what this is about. For a horrible moment, he finds himself considering whether she somehow managed to recognise him, from the photos of him circulating on crazy conspiracy theorist websites – well, not so crazy when it comes to him. He’s the one thing they’ve gotten right.

“I just wanted to say I’m glad you shared, last week,” She says, and starts fumbling with her bag, He watches, intrigued, as she continues speaking: “… I have a buddy – uh, someone from the veteran’s ward – he’s got a prosthetic, too-” She pulls something black out of her bag, and he steps back slightly, on edge for a moment.

“I made something like this for him, and he really-” She looks up, and notices the wary look on his face, as his eyes linger on whatever it is that’s she’s retrieved.  
“Oh – no, it’s okay – it's-” She unfolds what turns out to be a piece of knitted material, showing it to him. He relaxes visibly, his alarm replaced by curiosity. “-for your arm. Just slip it on – your partner would probably be really glad of it,” She points out.

 _An arm warmer_. She hands it to him, and he takes it cautiously, wordlessly appraising it.  
“There’s a glove, too,” She adds, handing it over. “… I knit, as part of my, uh … It helps. You get into a flow, and it’s good to concentrate hard on something like that, you know? – Keeps your mind busy … And your hands,” She explains, her voice growing quieter towards the end of the sentence. He looks up from the garments, and sees a far-away look in her eyes.

It’s like looking into a funhouse mirror.

Eventually, she looks up, and smiles again, visibly shaking herself of the negative thoughts she’s clearly just been having.

“Anyway. Try it – I made them black cause it’s the colour you wear most often – but if you want anything else, in different colours, let me know,” She says. And with another smile, she’s gone. Bucky realises a moment too late that he forgot to ask her name, or ask her why she did this for him, or even thank her. But he vows to try the arm warmer on that night, anyway.

He supposes he’ll see her again, next week.

“Good to see you making friends,” Sam says, dusting his hands off and approaching Bucky, as he watches the woman leave.  
“… Yeah. Something like that,” He says, looking back down at the knitted garments in his hands. Sam eyes them too, looking between them and Bucky’s thoughtful face, and smiling to himself.

-

“What’s that?” Steve asks, eyebrows raised in surprise, when he sees Bucky pulling on some kind of woolly cosy over his arm. He’s already in bed, watching Bucky getting ready to join him.

He can never get enough of watching Bucky: he still finds it kind of hard to believe that he’s back. He finds it even harder to believe that he’s finally, _finally_ managed to express his feelings for Bucky to him – and that the feeling is mutual. It feels a little like he’s dreaming, sometimes.

It’s not perfect, by any means – Bucky’s got issues to work through, just like he has, himself – but he is working through them, now. They’ll both be okay, one day.

“Arm warmer,” Bucky says, being deliberately facetious, as he arranges it so it fits well. The wool is kind of stretchy, meaning it fits just right – the woman who made it is a good study. He pulls on the glove, and flexes his fingers – it fits, too.

“Yeah, I can see that, jerk,” Steve says, rolling his eyes. “Where’d you get it?”  
“One of the other veterans made it for me,” He explains, climbing under the comforter.  
“Why?” He asks, as Bucky gets closer.  
“So I can do this,” Bucky says simply with a grin, moving so he’s behind Steve. Slowly, he snakes his left arm around him, pressing his metal hand up under Steve’s shirt, and rubbing at his abdomen softly. He feels Steve relax under his touch, sighing in satisfaction – then, he suddenly says -  
“Holy cow … That’s a lot better,” He admits. “-not as cold, I mean. Not that it was bad before – I always like it when you-”  
“Quit talking, punk,” Bucky says, and plants a kiss on Steve’s neck.

Sure enough, Steve really is glad of the arm warmer, and glove: the material stops the cold from getting to his skin, without being coarse, and rough; it’s soft against his skin, and he doesn’t get woken up in the middle of the night, shocked into consciousness by the cold sting of metal.

Bucky’s just happy he can get as close as he likes to Steve without feeling like he’ll hurt him.

-

He seeks the veteran out, at the end of the meeting, the next week:  
“Hey!” He calls to her, feeling slightly guilty that it’s the first word he’s said to her; guilty that he’s not wearing the warmer today – but it’s a hot day, and he’s opted for a vest. Sure, it shows off the red star – but no one will ever know the story behind it. No one except him, and the other Avengers, who aren’t here right now.

She turns around, and he beckons her over.  
“Sergeant Barnes,” She says, with a smile. “You want help stacking the chairs? I’m pretty strong, you know,”  
“No – no, I just … I wanted to thank you, for the arm-warmer,” He says. He awkwardly scratches the back of his head, feeling slightly embarrassed. “… Sorry I didn’t say thank you before – or ask your name,”  
“It’s fine – I’m Carol. Carol Danvers,” She tells him with a smile, shaking his hand.  
“You were in the army?” He asks.  
“The air force … There was an explosion at my base. Lost a lot of good officers,” She tells him. “Got hurt pretty bad – not just my body, either,” She adds. “One honourable discharge later, and here I am. You know how it goes,”  
“… Yeah. Yeah, I do,” He adds, wishing he’d experienced anything as simple as an honourable discharge.  
“I gotta get going. Nice talking to you again though, Sergeant,”  
“Bucky,” He tells her, with a smile that doesn’t take as much effort as he’s expecting. “… Listen – do you think you could make me another one?” He says, indicating his left arm.  
“Sure. Anything in particular?” She asks curiously.  
“Yeah, just – you see where this is?” He points at the red star on his shoulder, and she nods. “Can I have stars and stripes there, please?”  
“Stars and stripes?” She says, smiling slightly. Wouldn’t be the first time she’s made something with the American flag on it, for a veteran.  
“Yeah – like Captain America’s shield,” He adds. “… My _partner_ would really appreciate that,”

Her eyebrows raise slightly, but she doesn’t stop smiling – there’s a knowing look in her eye, as she says,  
“Sure thing, Bucky,”  
“Thanks,” He says in advance.  
“No problem – see you next week?” She asks.

“Yeah,” He says, sounding determined. With one final smile, she turns and leaves him to continue stacking the chairs.

When they’re all done, and leaving, Sam asks him,  
“Did you thank her?”  
“Yeah – she’s making me another one,” Bucky tells him.  
“Oh really?” Sam asks, looking pleased. 

Bucky keeps tight-lipped, until he gets the new arm-warmer: then, he wears it brazenly around the Avengers tower, for all the others to see. The white star circled by red and blue stripes is a pleasant surprise for everyone. 

No one is more thrilled than Steve – except, maybe, Bucky himself. It’s not a cure-all, by any means – but it helps make everyday life just that little bit easier. Steve says he’d like to meet this Carol, one day, and thank her personally for helping him get a good night’s sleep again.

It’s not just about sleep, though. For both of them, it’s about Bucky’s recovery – and making a friend, like that, is part of it. The more he sees of Carol - going for coffee with her sometimes before meetings, and sometimes after - the easier it gets for him to talk to the other Avengers; the easier it is for him to share at the meetings.

He’s not back to normal – nor will he ever be, given that the concept of ‘normal’ while living in the Avengers tower is null and void. But he’s getting better.

And he, and Steve, and Sam, can’t ask for anything more than that.


End file.
